


Heroic humanity

by Jinxgirl



Category: Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 17:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14360151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: Post season 1, pre season 2. The world believes they know Jessica now. Trish knows what they cannot.





	Heroic humanity

The world sees Jessica Jones as one or the other. To those who make her acquaintance, and even those who don’t, she is either a miraculous, superhuman, larger than life hero, or an infuriatingly inconsistent, unreliable, irresponsible asshole, headed for the fastest path to self-destruction. 

To Jessica herself, there is no question about it. She is the latter, and no matter what others might say in favor of the former, their views will never make it true.

But Trish Walker knows better, because she knows Jessica. Better, she suspects, than Jessica knows or even really wants to know her own self. And Jessica is far too complex, far too real, to be boiled down to a simple judgment in either direction. To Trish, it is not only possible, but essential, to understand Jessica to be both. 

To the casual observer, and even those few individuals Jessica allows to regularly interact with her, Jessica Jones has an outer shield as dark, hard, and immoveable as volcanic glass. She is strong enough to lift a full sized car and tough enough to take a blow that would kill an average man twice her size in seconds. She is an impulse driven, profanity spewing, tactless mess of a woman with poor self care and social skills, few healthy habits, and no cleaning or decorating abilities to speak of. She pushes away anyone who tries to offer help or concern, and she has serious mental health and alcohol dependence issues. 

Jessica does not have her shit together, by any definition of the word. Somehow, she is a badass all the same. 

Trish wouldn’t deny any of this to be accurate observations. Hell, she’s probably said all of them herself, at one point or another. But what the rest of the world doesn’t know, what Jessica does not allow them to see, is the contradictory softness in Jessica, the hugely vulnerable and sensitive heart beneath it all that she tries so hard to hide. 

Trish knows, as no one else could, the depth of Jessica’s fears, the bottomless well of insecurity that no reassurance or contrary evidence seems to fill. She knows Jessica’s inner panic in response to loving, to being loved, and of all the loss and rejection Jessica fears either will bring. She knows Jessica’s shame, her guilt, the weight of silent responsibility she takes onto her slim shoulders that seems impossible even for their strength to bear alone. She knows Jessica sees herself as a curse, a plague set upon innocent people who dare to involve themselves in her life, and her only option to make sure they don’t want to be present long enough to be exposed to the pain she is certain she will bring into their lives. 

She knows that Jessica believes, deep to the core of her being, that she is not good enough, that she is somehow worthless, even bad. Trish cannot help but recognize in Jessica the emotional struggle she has fought in her own life, and it fucking breaks her heart. 

The truth is that no matter how much she tries to hide it, Jessica feels deeply and hurts badly, much more than she ever really hurts anyone else. Jessica’s worst enemy is her own self-loathing. Still, Trish can see without her having to say it- and of course, she never says it- that as much or maybe more than Jessica hates herself, she loves Trish. Trish knows without her having to tell her that Jessica would do anything, no matter what it cost her, for what she saw to be Trish’s benefit, to protect Trish and keep her safe. 

Sometimes Jessica’s view of what was best for Trish didn’t quite match up to Trish’s own. In fact, quite often, their opinions on this clashed, and due to her equal stubbornness and superior strength, Jessica almost always got her way. But no matter how damn infuriating it was for Jessica to go on one of her disappearing acts, to ditch her when Trish wanted to accompany her, or to do everything she could to shut Trish out of her life and thoughts, Trish couldn’t stay angry or upset with her for long. Because no matter how hard she pushed Trish away or how thick and solid she made her walls, Jessica did, whether or not she always knew it, lower them down for her, and her alone. It was Trish who got to see Jessica as no one else ever did, who got to not only see past the walls, but actually step through them at times to everything that lay behind them.

It was Trish who had known Jessica at fourteen years old, just barely past the little girl stage of climbing trees and playing neighborhood games- all the normal, childish fun that Jessica had experienced and Trish never could, that her Patsy-focused childhood would not have allowed for. Even in those early years, when Trish resented Jessica’s sullen, unwanted presence in her already unhappy home, she had envied this blessing of Jessica’s that the other girl hadn’t even seemed to realize she had. The gift of a normal, happy childhood…the knowledge that once, no matter how terribly it all had ended for her, she had been unconditionally loved. 

She had looked at her, small, pale, and barely conscious in her hospital bed after her family’s fatal accident, not seeming aware of her own barely audible whimpers or her slowly seeping tears, and Trish’s heart had seized for her, with a panicked uncertainty for dealing with a situation for which she was given no script. She barely knew Jessica Jones then; she was just some girl at school, barely worth noticing, let alone speaking to. But now she was supposed to live with her; hell, she was supposed to be her sister, if only in the public’s eye. It was an inconvenience, a travesty, really, and of course, it was all for ratings and publicity.

But Trish had watched the shell shocked pain of the other girl and even then, the depth of Jessica’s grief, the magnitude of the loss she felt, had stunned her. What would it feel like, to feel that kind of pain for anyone but herself?

Once Jessica was discharged, officially part of her daily life and home, Trish had heard the muffled noise of Jessica’s radio late into each night. The one time she barged in without knocking, angry and ready to snap at her to turn it off, that some people who actually worked for a living needed their sleep, she had caught sight of the tears Jessica had hurriedly swiped away before turning to face her, and she had understood in a flash just what the music really masked. Trish had never again entered Jessica’s room without knocking first, and no matter how late into the night the music played, she never asked her to turn it off. Ear plugs existed, after all, for a reason.

Two months later, Trish had listened, stricken, as Jessica’s sarcastic responses to her mother had been one too many, provoking Dorothy Walker to turn on her with the cold, biting words Trish had had thrown her way enough times to realize just how good her mother was at aiming for the weakest parts of the heart. She had stood there, unable to think of what to do or say, as Dorothy told Jessica that she was nothing but an ungrateful bitch one step above gutter trash only because of the grace of being allowed a roof over her head and food on her plate. She listened, as shaken as though the words were addressed to her, as Dorothy called Jessica useless, unlikeable, and disgraceful. She watched Jessica’s already pale face drain further when Dorothy speculated aloud whether her parents would be ashamed of her, whether fate had been mistaken in the day she had been allowed to live even as she caused the rest of her family to die. And she had followed, almost running, as Jessica wordlessly turned and closed the door to Trish’s bathroom behind her, refusing to open it or speak until Trish, done with pleading, used a credit card to jimmy the lock and come inside. She had taken in the sight that greeted her of Jessica’s shoulders, jerking up and down with her forced suppression of her sobs, the silent but steady stream of her tear. For the first time she had willingly touched her, persisting until Jessica allowed her to close her arms around her stiff, still shaking frame, to hold on, although Jessica would not relax at all into the tentative embrace. 

 

Trish knew, as no one else did or could, how Jessica sneered at the idea of female bonding rituals, of sleepovers and makeovers, hair braiding and painting nails…and yet more than once, her eyes have looked suspiciously shiny when Trish was able to prod her into watching the sappy movies she scorned at. And each time Trish smoothed back her hair from her face, either in an effort to tame it or in an attempt to give comfort, Jessica had never pulled away. 

Trish had seen Jessica get herself drunk to the point that she could barely walk, until she stumbled and lolled against her and slurred her words, until she had all the motor skills of a toddler and the same need for being put down for a nap. She had been there when the alcohol loosened Jessica’s tongue just enough to let some of her bitter words against herself come out into the open, just enough that Trish could hear how much she takes on as her fault, her responsibility, her burden…and just how little she sees of her worth. She’s seen her after fights, both those provoked by others and those driven by Jessica’s hot temper or flares of panic, and made her sit still long enough for Trish to clean her cuts, bandage broken bones, ice bruising, and massage muscles so tight it makes Trish wince in sympathy to touch them. She knows that no one else would ever be allowed to take off Jessica’s shoes and set water and aspirin beside her to wake up to; no one else ever wake in the morning to find Jessica still present in their home.

Trish has seen her sick from hangovers and panic attacks and just ordinary colds and flus that even super heroes can fall prey to, and Trish knows how Jessica refuses to take care of the body she already allows to be stressed and abused beyond anything that could be considered normal or healthy. She knows exactly the point Jessica has to reach of pure exhaustion before her body gives up on her, before she will tolerate any efforts to “fucking baby her,” as Jessica would put it, without too much protest. And she knows that even when Jessica does protest, a part of her registers that Trish “nags her” because she cares. She knows that Jessica gets cold easily, that she steals covers and shivers in her sleep without blankets, how when Trish covers her, she burrows beneath it as though in unconscious relief of the warmth. She remembers that Jessica was the very first person who ever called her by the name she preferred, the only person who ever recognized and refused to tolerate it whenever she saw that Trish had needed help. 

 

She knows how Jessica has been there, a supportive arm around her waist to keep her from falling flat on her face, every time Trish was too drunk or high to be able to reliably keep on her own feet. She’s felt Jessica’s hands, gingerly rubbing her back and holding back her hand when Trish vomited, depositing her in her bed and keeping watch, slumped in the uncomfortable chairs of hospital rooms or Trish’s bedroom as she slept, just to make sure someone would be there when Trish woke up, that she would know for a fact that Trish was okay. Trish has watched Jessica switch into fight mode in her defense any time a guy- or Trish’s mom- got too handsy or too aggressive, has seen the genuine, raw terror that brightens Jessica’s eyes when she perceives Trish to be in danger or pain. She has felt Jessica’s proximity to her each time Trish cried over a bad review by the critics or her mother’s cutting words, some stupid boy or a catty pop star’s remark. Jessica was, in her own words, not good at the comforting, but she was always there, and that mean something. It meant a lot.

Jessica had always been there when Trish needed her, when Trish was hurting, even if it was Trish hurting herself, any time that it was possible. Her presence alone could always make Trish feel even just a little bit better, no matter how awkward or biting Jessica’s words tended to be. But Trish could never seem to return the favor in a way that mattered. 

She couldn’t help her after Kilgrave, when Jessica came to her, broken and twitching, sobbing so hard she could not speak, curling in on herself and jerking, eyes wild, if it even seemed that Trish might touch her. Jessica had seemed unable to hear Trish’s soothing words, her reassurances of safety, and Jessica’s skin didn’t seem to register the sensation of Trish’s arms finally wrapping around her, holding and rocking her, trying to keep Jessica from breaking herself in body as badly as she had been in spirit. 

She couldn’t help her when Jessica ignored all calls and texts, drinking herself into blackouts and waking up with sunken cheekbones and a bruised look in her gaze. She couldn’t help her when Jessica refused to move back in with her and refused to let her sleep in the same room with her the few nights she allowed Trish to stay. She couldn’t help when Jessica screamed and pleaded forgiveness in her sleep, when she woke sweating, sobbing, and shaking in terror, lashing out wildly at any movement in her direction. She couldn’t help her when Jessica melted against the wall or down to the floor in the grip of panic attack, when she refused to continue seeing the therapist that Trish had begged her to seek out. She couldn’t help her when Jessica hurt so much that it hurt Trish to even look at her…and yet kept fighting herself, hurting herself more in the wake of her pain. 

She can’t help Jessica. Maybe no one can, except for Jessica herself. And maybe, Jessica doesn’t believe she’s worth that.

But Trish knows she is. And Trish hopes, in Jessica’s brief moments of softness, that maybe one day, Jessica will know it too.

 

She hopes, when she sees the sudden loosening of Jessica’s tensed muscles when she spoke Luke’s name, how her mouth had twitched at the corners with an unconscious smile. She hopes, when Jessica’s initial flinch or stiffening at Trish’s affectionate touches gradually relaxes into acceptance. She hopes, when she remembers the kiss against her neck and felt the tears against her skin as Jessica embraced her in relief of her survival in the back of the ambulance. She hopes when she sees the pride in Jessica’s eyes for Trish, ever so brief, but there, very much there, when Trish can succeed in making her laugh or smile. She hopes when she remembers the one time Jessica looked her in the eyes, past the shoulder of her darkest demon, and told her that she loved her for the very first time.

Trish hopes, because she sees who Jessica is, who she’s fought to become, and all the potential she has to be. It’s the reason why Trish can stick through everything about Jessica that makes her so damn difficult, so impossibly stubborn and self-destructive, so rude and just plain infuriating. Trish knows Jessica as no one else can, her humanity as much as heroism, and it’s for this that Trish loves her most. 

End


End file.
